


Drawstring

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Desperate John, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, His Cute Leisurewear, His Jim Jams, John's POV, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, RST, Rimming, Sherlock's Crack That Is, Sherlock's Pyjamas, UST, and crack, post-tab, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: "Are those new?" John blurts the question. It comes out a bit shouty. There's an edge to his voice.


  "Are what new?" Sherlock asks, holding the sheet music in his elegant hands.


  John gestures in the direction of Sherlock's lower half. His eyes are stuck, embarrassingly so, on the way the pyjamas sit, just a bit lower than usual, over Sherlock's arse, which is still bent over the desk.


  "Your pyjamas." Still too loud. He repeats himself, managing to lower his volume to something approaching normal: "Your pyjamas."

I found out my friend Queenie digs pyjamas and dishevelled!Sherlock. So I wrote this for her.





	Drawstring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenMab3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab3/gifts).



John first notices something well, not amiss, but—different—on the third day after he finally moves back to Baker Street. The mess with Mary is over, Mary herself long gone, the baby entirely fictional, and his heart more dedicated than ever to Sherlock.

The man himself has agreed, more eagerly than John would have guessed, to a bit of a rest before he goes crashing off on a new case. John certainly needs it. They both do, he thinks.

Sherlock seems uncharacteristically joyful about taking a break, swanning about the flat, sorting out old case files, making room for John's things, as few as they are. He's even made a meal or two (surprisingly okay; tasty, even) and gone down to the shops to buy some things that John likes. He's happy for John to be back, and it shows.

John is happy too, ecstatic, even, to be back home. It's the only place for him, even if it doesn't feel quite like it did before.

Something is out of place, and he's struggling to put his finger on it.

That morning, a Wednesday, he's sitting in his chair reading the paper, when Sherlock comes into the sitting room, blue dressing gown flowing out behind him, worn over his striped blue pyjama bottoms and threadbare t-shirt, a look that John privately thinks of as "casual Batman."

Sherlock reaches over the desk to grab a pile of sheet music (git: why not just go round to the other side, closer to what he's trying to grab?), the dressing gown slips over to one side, and something about the way Sherlock's pyjama bottoms sit on his hips makes John frown. There's a strip of skin between the frayed hem of the t-shirt and the top of the waistband he hasn't seen before.

He's trying to figure out why things are different when he realises Sherlock is staring at him, his eyebrows raised, a faint smile on his lips, his piercing eyes just as magnetic as they always are, his tousled hair practically begging to have fingers run through it.

"Are those new?" John blurts the question. It comes out a bit shouty. There's an edge to his voice.

"Are what new?" Sherlock asks, holding the sheet music in his elegant hands.

John gestures in the direction of Sherlock's lower half. His eyes are stuck, embarrassingly so, on the way the pyjamas sit, just a bit lower than usual, over Sherlock's arse, which is still bent over the desk.

"Your pyjamas." Still too loud. He repeats himself, managing to lower his volume to something approaching normal: "Your pyjamas."

Sherlock slowly straightens up, and the pyjamas slip a little lower over his hips, revealing the taut muscle below his navel. If they were to slip even a tiny bit more, John is certain he'd be seeing Sherlock's pubic hair, answering the question of exactly what his natural colour is, not that he's thought too hard about it, because any time he's let himself go there, he's been much more interested in imagining thrusting his hand down into Sherlock's pants, palming his cock, feeling the swell of his arse—

"John?"

John shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He's half hard in his pants, and panicking.

"New—pyjamas?" He croaks out the words, swallowing saliva and need for the thousandth time.

"Nope." Sherlock pops the p. The emphatic quality of it goes straight to John's crotch.

Of course they're not new. They're the same ones Sherlock's worn many times before, John's sure of it, and yet, there is a different quality to them. They never used to sit so—well. So low. So low.

It isn't that Sherlock's lost weight, either. He's been looking after himself better, these last couple of weeks, and if anything, he's gained some muscle, filled out a bit. He looks wonderful. Healthy. He's practically glowing. He's smiling at John, in fact, a soft expression coming into his eyes.

John adjusts in his chair again, grateful for the newspaper over his lap. He frowns down at it.

He can't do this, can't start torturing himself with ideas about what might happen between him and Sherlock. He got caught up in it before, and he got hurt, and he's promised himself he'll never go tearing off into fantasy again. Sherlock isn't like that. It isn't fair to want him to be.

"Well, I'm going to take a shower," Sherlock says, apropos of nothing, and he sweeps off down the hall, dressing gown breezing out behind him. John turns and watches as Sherlock eases himself around the chairs in the kitchen, sucking in his belly and going up on tip toes. John catches a glimpse of Sherlock's exposed waist as he lifts his arms, the pyjama bottoms slipping down another quarter inch, revealing more lower back than John's seen since Sherlock almost lost his sheet at Buckingham Palace.

The moment the bathroom door shuts, John bolts for his room.

Behind the closed door, he hurries to unzip himself and crashes down onto the bed. He shouldn't feel this way. It's wrong, or at least mildly inappropriate, but dear God, he loves Sherlock unabashedly, and after everything they've been through—the midnight stakeouts, the hiding in close quarters in Sherlock's bolt hole (the one behind the clock face of Big Ben, no less), the one time that Sherlock took his hand and squeezed it, the look in his eyes, the passion, the fear, the pleading ( _John, please be okay, please_ )—it's no wonder that John's been left with...impressions.

He spits into his hand—no time for lube—and he gasps as he runs his palm along his length. He's so very hard and more ready to come than he has been since he was a teenager. He thrusts into his hand as his mind grasps at imagery—the pale expanse of Sherlock's skin, the way he bent over the desk downstairs—and he imagines positioning himself behind Sherlock, running his hand over his lower back, along his spine, his cock brushing against the back of those low-slung pyjama bottoms, dragging over the skin at the top, Sherlock's deep voice saying his name, and that's all John needs. He turns inside out and comes hard, with a cough, his hot ejaculation spilling out over his fist, and onto the fronts of his jeans.

He lies on his side for a moment, curling around himself, before he takes a tissue from the nightstand and cleans up. He's grateful that he did laundry recently. Finding clean trousers won't be an issue, although Sherlock will, no doubt, observe that he's changed.

He closes his eyes and winces. Sherlock probably already knows what he's up to, what's just happened. Sherlock knows him thoroughly, knows him better than he knows himself, and yet, and yet.

_He doesn't want me._

John sighs, and rubs his fingers through his hair. He smiles up at the ceiling, and laughs at himself, a little. He's back exactly where he swore he never would be again. All it's taken is a little glimpse of an errant hip, and he's completely besotted.

This is no good. This is no good at all.

***

The next day, it's worse. They're worse.

John starts the day optimistically, with an early morning jog. Actually, he starts the day with persistent morning wood that demands to be taken care of before he can do anything else, inspired by vivid dreams of the top half-inch of Sherlock's arse crack. Then he decides on the jog.

He runs for the better part of an hour, until he's thoroughly exhausted and his legs are burning. He drags himself home, certain that nothing bad can happen if he doesn't have the energy.  

He pulls himself slowly but cheerfully up the stairs, ready to face the day and whatever terror Sherlock's pyjamas might hold for him, and there's the man himself, lying on the sofa, his left arm dangling on the floor, his right hand dangerously close to his (thankfully resting, however, still there, still definitely THERE) cock, his t-shirt hitched up practically to his nipples, and his pyjama bottoms hanging loosely, a full couple of inches below his belly button.

There's a drawstring, but it's tied in a single bow, not double knotted like it should be. The smallest tug would undo it, and undo John.

Sherlock has a noticeable treasure trail, a delicate line of fine auburn hair that's illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. John's mouth waters as he imagines running his tongue along it, moving lower, inching that loose waistband down with his chin, his fingers.

"John?"

Sherlock is, of course, watching him. John is gasping and heaving where he stands, face red, sweat choosing that exact moment to drop from his chin.

"Morning."

It's absolutely humiliating, but John cannot tear his gaze away from the pale band of Sherlock's stomach. The pyjamas are the same ones he was wearing yesterday, and yet, they're that much more loose. John could easily slip both hands down them—

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock's hip bone is exposed, the dressing gown doing nothing to cover him. John manages to nod, and, painfully, moves his eyes up the long line of Sherlock's torso, over all the places the threadbare blue t-shirt clings (ribs, chest, shoulder), finally landing on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's cheeks have gone pink, for no reason John can discern. The flat is, if anything, rather cool. Sherlock's brow is knitted, his gaze intent. It seems to drink John in, from his sweat-soaked hair to his worn trainers.

They're staring into each others' eyes. Gazing.

"Fine, yeah," John tells him. He's licking his lips. Goddamn it. It's obvious. _He's_ obvious.

He has to stop. He should definitely stop thinking about Sherlock's cock, wait, how did Sherlock's cock enter into this? Jesus. He's staring at Sherlock's crotch again, and Sherlock isn't helping, he's shifting on the sofa, writhing, almost, and the pyjama bottoms slip just a tiny bit lower, inching down, and if he rolls onto his stomach just a little bit more—like that, just like that—oh God, the swell of the top of Sherlock's arse is right there, for John to see, for John to stare at.

Sherlock sits up, the pyjama bottoms slipping just a little bit lower.

(How can he not know? How can he not feel it? He _does_ , he _must_.)

Sherlock puts his arms up over his head and he stretches and yawns. He leans against the back of the sofa, looking delightfully tousled, and he lowers his hand and he _pets himself_ , splayed fingers moving back and forth through the fine auburn hairs below his navel, dipping ever so slightly into the waistband of his pyjamas, and—

John is halfway down the hall to the loo before Sherlock can do anything else. He shouts, his voice too loud, his airway positively constricted, "Yeah just gonna—shower, now!"

He slams the door behind him and leans up against it. From the kitchen comes the sound of Sherlock running the coffee grinder.

John is wildly hard, despite his precautions: morning masturbation session, vigorous jog. He's in the bathroom wearing all these layers—t-shirt, hoodie, windbreaker, trainers, socks, not to mention joggers and Y-fronts. He tears it all off as fast as he can, pants tangling and bunching around the trainers, arms trapped by the hoodie, which wraps itself around his head. Blind, he stumbles and sits down hard on the floor by the toilet, where he fumbles his clothes off the rest of the way.

"John?" Sherlock calls to him through the loo door. He's right outside, goddamn it. When did he start caring what John does in the loo? "Are you all right?"

"Fine!" John's voice is strained. "Just—taking a shower."

Sherlock doesn't reply, which makes John wonder if he's still standing outside the door, listening for—Sherlockian reasons. John is beyond caring what Sherlock can hear. He's finally naked, somehow lying on his side with his back pressed against the tub, the cool smoothness of it all along his spine. He wraps his hand around his aching cock and pulls, once, twice, and he's done, not even time to turn on the faucet and cover up the choking sound he makes. He clears his throat vigorously, trying to pretend he didn't just paint half the bathroom floor with come, and—totally humiliating—hears Sherlock's footsteps moving away from the other side of the door.

His hand is slick with his own release. His breath eases, and he sighs, sitting up enough to reach the taps and turn on the hot water.

It's a moment or two before he can manage to stand and climb into the shower.

It's so much worse than he thought.

***

Sunday is fine, until Sherlock says three words. Not the three words John's dreamed of him saying, the ones John's dreamed of blurting out as he grabs the lapels of the Belstaff and pulls Sherlock in for a kiss.

"Look at this."

Those three words shouldn't be an issue, shouldn't be a problem at all, particularly because Sherlock has gotten dressed. He's wearing the purple shirt he favours, and a black pair of trousers, and shoes. Clothing. Sexy clothing, to be sure. Everything about Sherlock is always so well put together, so undeniably handsome. John would be proud to accompany this version of Sherlock anywhere. Anytime. Honoured. He would be humbled, even. Happy. Really, really happy.

But it's easier, for John, this excessively well groomed version of Sherlock, everything tucked in and sorted, not delightfully dishevelled, exposed. There are no bare feet and there is no bare lower back. This is the world John knows, in which Sherlock is the dashing flashy one, and John is the one who follows, the one who helps, the one who listens, the one who—

—sits in his chair while Sherlock perches on the arm beside him, apparently.

Yes, that is exactly what he is, who he is, in this moment, as Sherlock settles in beside him, his thigh pressing against John's upper arm and elbow. He hands John his laptop, sitting it on John's knee.

John is frozen in place, all too aware of the press of Sherlock's leg, and yes—goddamn it—the way Sherlock has draped himself over the back of John's chair, not quite resting his arm on John's shoulder, just angling his (perfect, gorgeous) body so he can look at the screen.

John scans the document that's open—a copy of a letter written by the man they've been investigating since yesterday. It's pretty incriminating, actually—an email to his secretary, but it seems, based on John's skimming of the text, a good deal sexier than an office communiqué should be.

John's breath grows shallow and rapid as he scrolls down, the heat of Sherlock's body warming the entire surface of his skin. He fails to read the letter, his brain processing only the sexiest bits: _can't wait to touch you wanted you for so long you have no idea that day you came in with that new suit you have no idea what you do to me_. "Ah," he says, feeling that he must say something. "Interesting."

When Sherlock speaks, it goes straight to his groin. "It gets better."

"Isn't this enough to take back to his wife? She wanted evidence he was cheating, yes?"

"I suppose."

Perspiration breaks out across John's forehead as Sherlock's breath moves the fine hairs on the back of his neck. John's already flushed red, and reaching to loosen his collar, when he gets to the attachment at the end of the email. Like an idiot, he clicks on it: a dick pic. It's a bit blurry and poorly lit, overexposed in more than one sense, but it's fully erect, standing at attention, and altogether too much.

"What do you...think?" Sherlock's voice in his ear is dark and husky, and it's wrong, far too close to everything John wants, everything he's dreamed about.

"Oh," John says, shutting the laptop and handing it to Sherlock as he rockets from the chair. He's half erect himself, the ghost of Sherlock's subtle scent following him across the room while he paces.  

Sherlock's brow furrows, his eyes scanning the length of John's body, down to the floor, to his sock-clad feet, and back up to his face. Sherlock sits up, still on the arm of John's chair.

"What do you think we should do?"

John stares at him, terrified. His mouth is hanging open, and he can't manage to close it.

He knows very well what he thinks they should do. They should go to Sherlock's bedroom and tear each others' clothes off and kiss and kiss. Sherlock should allow John to trace all the lines of his body with his tongue and lips, especially his spine, the crease of his arse, the tender flesh of his inner thighs. John doesn't know for a fact that Sherlock's inner thighs are tender, he's assuming, but whose aren't, really. He's imagined them too many times to think otherwise—

"John?"

"Ah," John says. He's blinking at Sherlock, who seems as cool and matter-of-fact as always.

He can't explain the feelings he has trapped inside him, the things he wants to do, the things that are crying to get out. It isn't just about his bare skin on Sherlock's, the relief he imagines he might feel at finally getting to do everything he's fantasised about, physically. It's about being able to tell Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, how much he wants to belong to him, how much he wants them to belong to each other. It's about finally admitting what they are to each other, what they could be.

Except it's all in his head. Isn't it? Isn't it?

He takes the biggest risk he can manage, under the circumstances. He clears his throat and asks, his words coming out clipped, "What. Do. _You_. Think. We. Should. Do?"

Sherlock tilts his head, brow still furrowed. His eyes slide back to the laptop, as if it's part of the puzzle he's trying to sort through, then back to John.

"I think—" Sherlock shuts his mouth. Processing. When he speaks again, it's in a rush, mumbled words, uncertainly spoken— "we should collect more data."

John gestures weakly at the sitting room, his hand waving. The case, of course, the case, Sherlock is talking about the case. He must be. There's never anything else.

John is heading for the door before he realises what he's doing, grabbing his shoes and rushing to shove them onto his feet. The left one doesn't work out; his heel is pushing down the back of the shoe, but it doesn't matter. He has to leave. Now.

"John?" Sherlock calls after him, but John is out the door. Sherlock doesn't follow, and John is both relieved and devastated. He limps down the street, his shoe threatening to slip off, until he can get around the corner and out of the line of sight of the windows of 221B.

Both shoes firmly on his feet, he walks away from Baker Street with all the apparent purpose of a good soldier, but none of the inner fortitude. He's disappointed, but he can't say it's in Sherlock.

John is right back where he used to be, wanting and wanting, to no avail.

His entire body still vibrates with nervous energy. He walks a little faster, trying to get it out of his system, or maybe outrun it. His hand clenches and releases. If he walks far enough, for long enough, maybe he can stop thinking about it.

_What do you think we should do?_

He walks, and he walks, and he slows his pace, and he looks at the shops and the people he passes and he thinks what he always thinks: they're less happy than he is, less lucky, all these strangers, because they don't know Sherlock. They don't get to share his life. They don't get what John does.

A little further on, he passes the tea shop Sherlock favours, a tiny place that has every obscure variety and blend Sherlock likes. He pauses outside the window to admire a teapot covered in hand painted blue dragons. They turn and twist in a layer of stylised swirling clouds. The dragons are fierce and full of joy. They play on their own terms, just like Sherlock does.

John sighs. Sherlock isn't like other people. He doesn't know what he's doing. He can't. It all looks like it means something, but it's just John projecting regular motivations onto a man whom he can never really understand.

The sky brightens, the sun poking long fingers through a clear patch, briefly illuminating the pavement, and John. He slows in his walk, letting his brain churn through the problem of Sherlock one more time.

John is happy, back at Baker Street. He is. Happy and frustrated. The frustration, lately, has been a little more than he's expected.

He pauses outside a pet store window and watches some zebra finches hopping around their cage, jaunty in their brown coats and striped tails.

John sighs. It's fine. It's all fine. He chose this, wanted it, always wanted it. He chose it years ago, the same day he met Sherlock, not knowing what it meant, what it could mean. More recently, if he's honest, he chose it hoping it meant some very specific things. He wants Sherlock, he does: more than he would have guessed he could. The only thing he really needs to decide is if wanting Sherlock and not having him is going to be too much.

It's an easy decision, the easiest, because he's made it dozens of times before. He wants Sherlock, and he has Sherlock—has his friendship, has him in his life, and in the flat they share together.

It will have to be enough. It's more than anyone else has. Even if they never—even if they can't be that way together, it's amazing. It's Sherlock. John nods his head as he blinks at the passing pavement. He's been caught up lately in his own fantasy life, that's all. Nothing wrong with a few extra wank sessions in the loo. It's normal. It's perfectly healthy. Impressive, even, for a man his age.

He might suffer. He might struggle. He might wank himself to death. He's in a terrible mess, but it's his mess. There's no other place for him.  

His mood lifted, he carries on down the street, determined to take his time, get some proper exercise, and go back home soon, to the flat, and his life with Sherlock.

The buoyancy lasts a full forty-five seconds, ending at the precise moment he passes a menswear shop and gets an eyeful of the pyjamas and dressing gown on the mannequin in the window.

There's nothing particularly special about the pyjamas. They're probably very good quality, given the upscale reputation of the shop that's selling them. They appear to be crisp cotton, green with thick blue stripes down the length of the legs. They're paired with a top that buttons up the front, and a dark green dressing gown that's thick and velvety looking.

What has John breathing heavily as he stands on the pavement and stares, is the way the pj bottoms are hanging on the mannequin's prominent hips, a little low, so they bunch over the top of its arse. A tiny amount of plastic navel shows in the gap where the window dresser has chosen to leave the last two buttons of the top undone. The bottoms have been pushed down, he decides, bunched up deliberately, to look extra sexy. ( _What for?_ his mind screams. _Who wants this, besides me?_ )

He stands there for a good long while, staring and panting, as his mind eats itself and his cock twitches in his pants.

Sherlock has always dressed like a bombshell, the tightly tailored shirts, the straining buttons, and now, the extra low-slung pjs. It's his hobby, looking gorgeous. It's got nothing to do with John. Surely he dressed that way before, long before John was in the picture.

(Did he? Did he?)

It doesn't mean anything. Unless it does.

(What can it mean? _What can it possibly mean_?)

He stands at the window for longer than he should. He takes a deep breath. There has to be a way to deal with this.

His strong suspicion is that Sherlock has just somehow fallen into the habit of letting his pyjama bottoms go. Maybe the elastic is failing. Maybe he's just being lazy about replacing them. His stomach sinks as he thinks of all the reasons why Sherlock's pyjamas and the way they fit probably have nothing to do with John at all.

But John cares about Sherlock. Loves him, even. It would be nice to buy Sherlock a new set.

He goes into the shop and he asks the clerk for the highest-waisted pjs money can buy.

When he gets home, Sherlock has gone out. John waits up for him for the rest of the evening, pacing the flat, eating cold Indian takeaway for dinner, and nervously waiting to give Sherlock his new pyjamas. He's hoping to watch Sherlock's reaction, to see if he can read anything in his expression. Like he ever can. (Hope springs eternal.)

At 1:45am, John gives up waiting. He leaves the shopping bag with the pyjamas in it on Sherlock's bed, with a handwritten note on top: _I thought you might like these_. He briefly considers closing the note with an _xo_ , but ends up just signing it _John_.

***

John wakes up the following morning to scent of burning paper. He sits up in bed, wondering why the smoke alarm has not gone off, then remembers seeing it in the freezer the week before.

He's got his slippers on and he's down the stairs wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, his dressing gown draped over one arm. He descends through a thick layer of smoke that hovers a couple of feet below the ceiling. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and comes to a screeching halt as he finds the sink faucet on full and a half-naked Sherlock sitting at his microscope, propane torch burning in his free hand.

He's wearing his old pyjama bottoms, which seem to have loosened further. No top, no dressing gown, and, evidently, no pants. The pjs pool around his hips, bunched loosely and dipping down to reveal the swell of his buttocks, and the top three or four inches of the crack of his arse. The muscles of his back bunch and gather as he hears John come in, although he does not turn.

John stares, realising how undressed he is, how utterly unprepared for this scene. And yet, there's a calm inside him, a sense that everything will be fine, because he's quite certain he knows what's in the sink. The world slows, and a warm feeling unfurls inside him. It's anticipation. It's hope. Because he's not backing down this time. Not unless Sherlock tells him to.

He takes the propane torch from Sherlock's hand and turns off the flame. Not a good idea to do what he's about to do with a literal open flame in the room. There's more than enough metaphorical fire to go around.

John goes to the sink and stares in at the charred mess he finds there. The running water has extinguished the remains of the pyjamas he bought for Sherlock, but there's enough of the stripes left that he can tell that's what he's looking at. He's certain—more certain than he's ever been—that the partial immolation is deliberate. Sherlock wants him to know he burned John's present.

He doesn't want to wear new pyjamas. He wants to wear the old ones. The loose ones.

John smiles, brows lifting, hope fluttering in his chest. He turns the water off, and turns to look at Sherlock, who is watching him, coy as he hovers over his microscope.

"Didn't like them then?" John asks. He lets his dressing gown drop to the floor. He's done covering himself up. He thinks Sherlock is, too.

Sherlock blinks, frowns, and peers back down into the microscope. John checks: just as he suspects, there is no slide on the stage.

"Not sufficiently fire retardant." There's a tremor in Sherlock's voice.

John is shaking too, with anticipation, with fear of this all going sideways, but he can't go back, not if there's any chance at all. He's not thinking of the consequences. He's thinking of the times, in Afghanistan, that he had to jump into battle, that he had to just move forward and hope for the best and trust his instincts, even if it meant he might die.

He and Sherlock have already faced death together. Somehow this seems harder, because it's always seemed so impossible.

They're both dreadfully stupid.

John takes a step toward Sherlock. "But the ones you're wearing, they're—good? Safe, I mean?" He's grinning now as he comes closer.

Sherlock's breathing hard, and holding as still as John's ever seen him. If John is right, Sherlock's been planning this from the beginning. John just needs a word, just needs confirmation, just needs—something. He leans on the counter, staring at the swell of Sherlock's beautiful pale arse, where it disappears into the loose folds of fabric. The drawstring isn't even tied. It hangs loose and open. The gap between the waistband of the pyjamas and Sherlock's belly is everything.

"I think you prefer these, John."

Sherlock speaks softly, but his voice seems to boom in John's ears. John tears his eyes away from Sherlock's body and looks at his face, and Sherlock is gazing into his eyes, the two of them locked together in this shared look.

John licks his lips. "Why do you say that?"

The faintest trace of a smile graces Sherlock's lips. His eyes run down John's torso, and linger on his crotch, then back up to John's mouth. John takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. His chest is up against Sherlock's shoulder, his face pressing into Sherlock's soft curls, and the two of them are breathing like they've just run a race through London.

Sherlock stands up from the stool he's been perched on, and the pyjamas slip just a little bit more, totally exposing his right buttock.

John can't help himself: he falls to his knees and he runs his palm over Sherlock's white skin, kneading the muscle. His lips follow, not kissing so much as pressing into Sherlock's bottom. He's overwhelmed by years of frustration and the biggest, hardest erection he's ever had, and the idea that he can finally touch and kiss and tongue and fuck this incredible man. Words can't begin to express everything he's feeling, so he opens his mouth and he bites Sherlock, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him yelp in surprise. His bottom is muscular and soft all at once, exactly like John's imagined it.

"John!" Sherlock's voice carries shock and humour. John bites him again and Sherlock howls with laughter. "What are you doing?"

"You know what," John growls, low in his throat, and pulls Sherlock down to join him, the two of them kneeling on the floor of the kitchen as Sherlock's pyjamas come most of the way down, snagging on his hard prick as John pushes him onto his back.

They're together, then, John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, chest to chest on the kitchen floor, in the only place John has ever considered a real home. Sherlock's hands are on John's back and John straddles Sherlock, his knees clenching Sherlock's hips, and he leans down, his hands caressing Sherlock's face, his thumb tracing the line of Sherlock's lower lip. They blink into each other's eyes.

"This is all right," John says. It's a statement, and a question.

Sherlock knows what he means. He must, given the besotted smile he's wearing. "It's fine. It's all fine."

John laughs, and his whole body sings as he presses his lips to Sherlock's, an awfully careful and chaste kiss, given what the rest of their bodies are doing. It hasn't been all fine, far from it, but this certainly is. Sherlock's lips are soft and pliant under John's, his hands moving up to clasp John's shoulder. John kisses the corner of Sherlock's mouth, presses his bare chest to Sherlock's. Sherlock gasps and sighs and his eyes are shining and wet in the corners. John pulls back enough to smile at him, at this man he loves.

It's right. It's gentle. They've been so hard on themselves. The world has torn them apart from each other, again and again. They've made stupid decisions and they've fought this, and each other, since the beginning. But they're here now. Everything has finally come together in all the right ways, even as Sherlock's pyjama bottoms seem to be falling apart.

Sherlock's hands wander further south and John's entire blood supply follows. John makes a sound deep in his chest and his lips find Sherlock's collarbone and Sherlock shifts and groans, his hips lifting, and their pricks slide against each other through the paltry excuse for fabric that are Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and John's pants.

"You did all this on purpose," John growls, as he reaches down between them.

Sherlock's laugh starts out low and throaty, and changes to a high-pitched gasp as John caresses the head of his cock. "Ah," Sherlock manages to say. "An experiment. Worth it, I think."

"You think so."

Sherlock starts with something that sounds like "I do," but changes to a moan.

John's feelings of tenderness are starting to shift too, now that he's finally got the freedom to do exactly what he wants with this man who's writhing beneath him. He sits up, still straddling Sherlock, and rubs his hands over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watches him with open curiosity, his hands wandering down to John's thighs. He slips his fingers into the edge of the cuffs of John's boxer briefs, and John eases forward, hoping Sherlock will go just a little bit higher.

Sherlock bites his lower lip, head tilted to the side, coquettish, blushing, and John is gone.

"That's it." He slides off Sherlock, leg still pressing against Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock frowns. "What are you doing?"

John growls his reply as he pushes against Sherlock, rolling him onto his side. "On your belly," he says.

"That's not going to be—exactly comfortable." Sherlock sounds amused, the delight evident in his voice. "Hard floor, things—getting in the way."

"Fine. The bed, then."

John is on his feet and pulling Sherlock up by the arm. John tugs Sherlock into the bedroom, Sherlock's sagging pyjamas dipping low over his taut bottom, his feet tangling in the cuffs. He grabs John by the shoulders as he stumbles, a bit shy of the bed. John catches him around the waist, gasping with pleasure at the chance to touch and hold Sherlock, to press the length of himself against Sherlock's body, to breathe him in. He nuzzles Sherlock's long, elegant neck, and plants kisses there.

"God, you're just so—"

He can't finish the sentence. There are too many words welling up inside of him. _Infuriating. Enticing. Lovely, insane, amazing, incredible, brilliant, mine, mine_.

_Mine._

Sherlock moans into John's ear as John bites at his jaw, and swipes his lips over the soft lobe of Sherlock's ear. John grasps at the pillows on the bed, placing one close to the edge. He spins Sherlock on the spot, counting on the bunched fabric to make Sherlock lose his balance.

"What—" Sherlock manages before he trips, landing face down on the edge of the bed, his arse high in the air, exactly where John wants him.

John runs his hands down Sherlock's spine, as Sherlock moans and settles in against the pillow. He bends down over Sherlock's back, whispering in his ear, "Comfortable enough?"

Sherlock settles himself in against the pillow, resting on his elbows. He cranes his neck to look at John, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted. "John."

John stands up, and holds himself still for one long, aching moment, because he fears he might combust, he fears he might come in his pants here and now, or that his skin might tear open and release him to the heavens, and he won't get to do what he intends. His hands shake and his breath is ragged and he takes a moment to look at the lovely man displayed before him, and he thinks about how badly he's wanted this, and he can't believe he finally, finally gets to have it, to have Sherlock.

Sherlock is still turned awkwardly back to face him. He shimmies on the bed, raising himself up to watch John more closely. He isn't scrutinising John—it isn't time to play deductions or reduce him down to nothing. The two of them are just gazing into each others' eyes like two love struck arses—which, John supposes, they are.

When John finally calms enough to step toward Sherlock, he feels braver. He moves slowly: the rough, come-at-all-costs, furtive wanking is over. He wants to take his time. He presses his fingertips to the loose waistband of Sherlock's pyjamas, easing them down the very scant inches they have left to go before his entire arse is on display.

When John bends down to press kisses to Sherlock's lower back, Sherlock gasps. It's a sound John has heard many times before, in the course of Sherlock's deductions, but never because of him, never because of this.

He kisses lower, pressing his palms into the muscle of Sherlock's bottom. His lips and tongue follow, as he kisses deep into cleft of Sherlock's arse, tasting the mild musk and salt of him, as Sherlock gasps and grinds into the pillow.

It's the most incredible thing John's ever done. He gently pulls Sherlock's cheeks apart, and presses his mouth to his hole.

"John," Sherlock says, but it sounds as if it's coming from a great distance, John is so absorbed with what his mouth and tongue are doing. Sherlock's voice is thick and raspy, John's name riding on a low moan.

"Mm?" John presses the flat of his tongue to Sherlock's centre, and licks him, slowly, lavishly.

"John, I—" Sherlock's words are lost in another groan. This time, it sounds like it's coming direct from his core, from the very centre of everything he is.

John slides his hands over Sherlock's hips, inching the fingertips underneath him, feeling the sharpness of his hip bones, the tension in his low belly, as his tongue continues its work.

"John," Sherlock says, as John experimentally pushes his tongue against Sherlock. Sherlock moans and writhes.

"You were saying?" John murmurs, smiling against Sherlock's arse cheek, and planting kisses there.

"John, I want—I want—"

John tongues Sherlock again. "Something other than this?" He licks into him. "Something different?" He slides his hand under Sherlock, slips it between Sherlock and the pillow, and palms Sherlock's cock as he works his tongue over Sherlock's hole. "This?"

Sherlock is gone, lost to his own pleasure, moaning and beginning to quiver, his legs trembling as he presses back against John's tongue, forward into John's hand. John's heart is pounding, his cock full and aching, the tip rubbing erratically against the drape of Sherlock's bedspread. He does want more, wants Sherlock's hands on him, wants Sherlock's mouth wherever he's willing to put it. But he's spent so much time in the last little while getting himself off, hopelessly wanking and under the impression that he would never, ever get to do this—he's all too happy to touch Sherlock, to taste him, to help him feel everything John's been feeling: the desperation, and, finally, the release.

Sherlock's entire body shakes as he comes, his orgasm accompanied by a low sigh, as if he's somehow fascinated by it, as if it is, in fact, the best deduction he's ever made. It's by far the sexiest thing John has heard in his life, and he's been listening to Sherlock gasp and _oh_ his way through cases since they met, so many years ago. John presses his face to the curve of Sherlock's arse, his flesh soft against John's cheek and lips, and listens as Sherlock's breathing slows.

Sherlock rolls off the pillow, his face on sideways, his smile exhausted and his eyes full of sleepy affection, as he holds his hands out to John.

John climbs over the edge of the bed, crawling over Sherlock, his cock as hard as a diamond, his love for this (utterly debauched) man bursting in his chest. He giggles as Sherlock pulls him down on top of him, then rolls him over and takes John's cock in his fist, caressing it, and giving it an experimental squeeze, watching John's face for a reaction.

John's so close, he can't help himself: he wraps his hand around Sherlock's and thrusts into their combined grip, pumping three times before he comes. He lets go, rolling onto his back as he spills over Sherlock's hand, which stays with him, squeezing and holding him in a slower rhythm, as he starts to come down.

Sherlock laughs, low and throaty, as he noses the side of John's neck, slipping into the crook of John's arm and throwing his leg over John's, the worn cotton of his pyjamas still bunched below his knees.

John is the first to break the companionable silence. "It was an experiment."

"Hm?"

"You were experimenting on me. You wanted to see what I would do."

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sighs and moves closer. "All right then," John says, "you explain to me what's been happening with your pyjamas."

Sherlock inhales sharply. "I knew what you would do. Previous efforts had revealed that your masturbatory habits would increase proportional to the revealing or close-fitting qualities of my clothing."

"My mas—okay. Okay yes. I don't know why I'm surprised. Of course you track my wanking habits." He traces his fingertips down Sherlock's arm. "This is different, isn't it? Your hypothesis is a bit of a failure, don't you think?"

Sherlock chuckles. "I wouldn't say that."

"Well, smartarse, you set out to see if I'd wank more if your jim jams started to head for the floor. Instead you got a thorough introduction to my tongue. Sort of an unexpected result, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock props himself up on his elbow, so he can look at John's face. "You started wanking more, but for every quarter inch I loosened the drawstring on my pyjamas, you got angrier, too. And you didn't respond at all favourably to Mr. Bastion's penis."

"Mr. Bastion..."

"The randy boss. Our client's husband."

"I mean, it was okay, as cocks go."

"You slammed the laptop shut and left the flat for three hours."

John runs his hand over Sherlock's chest. "Well, it wasn't yours."

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement John needs to kiss his jaw. Sherlock keeps talking, low and sweet, as if he absolutely must finish what he's trying to say. "I began to hope, for the first time, that maybe you weren't operating on simple stimulus response."

John caresses Sherlock's face, holding it in his palm. He's so handsome, it hurts. "So, clever you. You wanted to see where it was all going."

Sherlock shakes his head, all seriousness. "I couldn't bear to stop."

John blinks up at Sherlock. "I didn't want you to," he says. "The lower your pyjamas slid, the more I knew what I wanted. I just never thought—"

Sherlock smiles. "And it was high time you did. Time we did. To be honest, if you hadn't, I don't know what I would have done."

"Well, you stopped just shy of having to parade through the flat completely bare arsed."

"I was planning to hang my cock out next, and see what you would say."

"Git."

"I was hoping you would go deeper than that."

John laughs. "And I did, and would again." He reaches down and tugs the pyjamas back up over Sherlock's hips. He plays with the drawstring, wrapping it around his index finger.

"I'll tell you one thing," he says. "We owe this little strip of cloth a great deal."


End file.
